


Gules & Sable

by JustinianAugustus



Category: Carmilla (Web Series), Carmilla - All Media Types
Genre: Ambiguous Timescale, F/F, Fluff, Gothic, Halloween, Innuendo, One Shot Collection, Semi-Requited Danny, Some Time During S1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-27 03:21:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12572612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustinianAugustus/pseuds/JustinianAugustus
Summary: Fluffy Halloween-themed one shots pairing Laura with Danny and with Carmilla.





	1. Gules

**Author's Note:**

> Gules - Laura/Danny

Whenever Danny was in the room she felt small, and not because of her Amazonian proportions. There was a majesty in everything she did, an impossible elegance in the simplest of tasks like brushing aside a crumpled flyer or handing Laura a fresh cup of Bergamot tea. It was her Summer Club sensibilities, she’d claim, but it tantalized Laura all year round.

Like now, for instance, in the height of Prealpine autumn. She was curled up in Danny’s arms while she flipped through the pages of a novel, darting back and forth between a web of underlinings. The way her fingers rode the paper’s edges, that subtle sound like a car passing over a rainy road, the glint of her unpainted nails, carried Laura’s attention from the lesson and spirited it to unbecoming thoughts. 

This time of year, Laura always left the window open, so the argent skies could blow sweet spices into the stuffy dorm and temper its oppressions. When the breeze picked up, the beech tree outside would make arcane melodies against the screen, and even Danny would lose her focus for a moment.

These ‘study buddy’ sessions always went the same way — they’d start in chairs, distant, effete; sitting by the light of the window until Danny would pull at her cardigan and Laura would wring her hands over her teacup and finally they’d move to the bed and a convenient drowsiness would find Laura resting more on Danny than on the lemon-hued pillow.

That was when she felt really small. Not weak, of course. On the contrary, it was a curious and novel sort of power. 

She could rearrange her leg, twirl one of Danny’s burning locks around her finger, turn her head to whisper a question and let her lips sit far too close to Danny’s soft jaw — these and other hexes would arrest her speech and make her slim fingers tremble at the next page-turn.

Oh god! How Laura wanted her to just drop the novel and face her, swallow her up in that temple of grey wool and white skin until the window’s cold command was overthrown. She wanted to curtain herself in the cascading mane of tangerine, or fan it out like an Aztec crown on the bedspread while kissing those timbrous arms from wrist to shoulder. To taste the sugared pumpkin on her lips, or let them read her poetry:

Danny could dope her up on fragments of Rochester, repeating _“in liquid raptures I dissolve”_ over and over again until the words became a sludge of sound, and they could start the process anew with Sappho or Rossetti: _“a scarlet stain upon the earth”_.

Danny was an Olympian, an avatar of Artemis — Laura had been sure of it when she saw her at the Halloween party in full Summer regalia. Crushing on a goddess! What a strange thought that was.

And yet, despite the genuflections, despite the rituals (take of this candy-corn and eat it, for it is my body; take of this schnapps and drink it, for it is my blood), she only seemed to haunt the margins of Danny’s attentions.

Was it the ‘TA’ thing? In the freshman consent workshop, with those contrived little parables of romantic misconduct, they had specifically warned of TA ‘study dates’ and their ethical quagmires. 

Laura didn’t care how much of a quagmire it was. She didn’t care if this was consent’s Vietnam.

_Just kiss me to the tune of the beech leaves!_


	2. Sable

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sable - Laura/Carmilla

Carmilla exuded a sort of gothic _je ne sais quoi_ which bloomed in the season of black candles and blood-moons.

Could you call getting hair everywhere and ignoring the concept of bra ownership ‘gothic’? Or a wardrobe straight from the emo section of the Sears catalogue? Or leaving cereal out until it became a fly-ridden liquid corruption that was probably self-aware? 

It was more authentic, at least, than the plastic Dracula masks and PEZ dispensers back in Toronto.

At present, her authenticity was unimpeachable. Laura could smell that rich coppery aroma on her breath, could see it flaking at the corners of her mouth, dark as pitch. And speaking of candles — red and orange, they danced contagious fires in Carmilla’s eyes.

Laura assumed Perry, Lafontaine, and the usual enter-without-knocking crew would be out for the night obliviating their minds with festive cocktails. For the time being it was the two of them, alone, in candlelight, staring at each other.

That frothy feeling, lust’s midwife, crept up like hoarfrost and froze Laura to the bed.  
Her pulse hit a canter, and she knew Carmilla would be salivating with each beat.

“Are you trying to turn me on?” Carmilla inquired.

How pale she was, how animated at Laura’s motions of discomfort!  
She wanted Carmilla, sure, but not Mircalla, not Millarca, not the Gräfin von Karnstein. Yet there still was the mole on her neck, the same flecks of ochre in her eyes, the same arching porticoes above and the same simmering grin that Laura always earned when she did something dorky.

“Listen cutie… I know it’s an occult holiday and you probably still think I want to cop a sip to take off my edge, but that’s never happening again. Okay?”

Laura grinned, inviting her to approach. There was something narcotic in Carmilla’s voice when she talked all low and intimate like that, something anesthetic in her fingertips as she traced strange patterns on Laura’s back. She kissed one cheek and then the other, time and time again, as if waving a censer of myrrh.

To be worshipped and sacrificed, to be vine and vintage, to be loved! It felt mad and obscure, but October evenings puzzled her senses into these brooding romantic circles.

At length Carmilla lay back, lounging imperiously like a frescoed Sultana in a Turkish bath. Except, in her case, the dreamy azures and spring-tones of oriental art were washed out to black and blacker and deep, alluring maroon.

Next Carmilla’s hand was on her thigh, agonizingly languorous, and despite the fact that it was the Witching Hour on Halloween Night and her seductress was a vampire, she never trusted anyone more in her life.

“How do you like my costume?” Carmilla asked.

“What is it supposed to be?”

“‘ _Slutty vampire_ ’.”

“You’re wearing the exact same clothes as always, Carm.”

“Yeah, true. But not for long.”


End file.
